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to write, was bent toward that night, that coming time, future yet past.
    Did he really want to go back? Yes. Yes, he did, with a desire that bordered on savagery. But why? To try and see Tracy again, if only in his mind's eye?
    And what would he do in that impossible occurrence? Tell her he loved her? Tell her what he had trouble telling himself—that she was the only woman he had ever really loved in his life? Tell her, or God, or fate, that he would do anything to have her back again?
    Absurd. Ridiculous. He tried to tell himself that if she had lived and they had gotten married, the same thing would have happened to them that happened with Connie—disinterest, boredom, minor indiscretions, major affairs, cruel divorce.
    But even as he told himself that, he knew it was a lie.
    Lie or truth, it didn't matter. He would never see Tracy again. She wasn't coming to the party. Only the living were.
    And maybe that would be enough. Maybe that was all he really wanted, a sharing, not only of a specific time and place, but of the mass consciousness they all once seemed to be a part of. Something that would, as he had told Frank and Chuck Hansen, give him new songs to sing, music to play. Maybe that would be enough.
    But maybe, just maybe there would be more. Was it too much to hope for, he wondered, to recapture some of that magic?
    Besides, he thought as he stood up and brushed the dust off his jeans, the party was going to happen now no matter what. Why not just wait and see if there was a little magic?

Chapter 5

    By May 17th, Woody Robinson had made three transcontinental flights preparing for the party. On that day he made the fourth and last of them, and met Frank McDonald at the Pittsburgh Airport. Frank smiled when he saw Woody, and gave him a brief hug.
    " Friggin ' 6:45 flight out of Atlanta," Frank said. "Man, as a travel agent, you're a hell of an oboist."
    "Have to get started early," Woody said. "We've got a lot to do before tomorrow night." Together they moved toward the Hertz counter. "So how's Judy?"
    “Judy's great. Unlike some of us I could name, she absolutely loves her work."
    "She still do any painting?"
    "Stenciled the dining room a few months ago. Distelfinks , or some goddamned folksy design. Feel like we're eating in a barn."
    Woody laughed. "You know what I mean. Any more of those ten foot wide canvases of red and orange?"
    "What, like 'Napalm Study No. 7?' Shit, no. She's found her real talent—managing. Makes more money than I do now with that gallery of hers."
    Woody picked up his keys, and they started toward the car. "Any avant-garde shows?"
    "Jesus, no. I told you about it—'The Buckhead Folk Art Gallery,' man. You never remember a thing, Woody. You always have your head too full of music."
    "Come on, I remember stuff."
    "Okay, what's my daughter's name?"
    Woody looked up quickly and grinned. "Easy. Henrietta.”
    “You asshole," Frank said, laughing. " Rebecca! "
    "I knew it ended with an A."
    On the drive to Iselin, Frank told Woody more about Judy's gallery. Then he grudgingly answered Woody's questions about his own work.
    "Selling instruments never changes, man. Seen one high school band room, you seen 'em all. I should've kept gigging. If I'd stuck with you I'd be a decajillionaire today."
    "I'm not a decajillionaire , Frank."
    "No, but I'd be."
    Woody smiled. "You played a helluva trombone."
    "Yeah, but how many New Age trombonists have you seen on Downbeat's charts?"
    " Downbeat doesn't have charts, and I don't play New Age."
    "No, but I woulda . Had the whole field to myself. Fame, fortune, sitting with Arsenio , talkin ' jazz . . . I saw him with Miles a couple years ago, when Miles was still alive, talking embouchure, that little spitting thing he did? And old Arsenio says it's like spitting out a hair, the audience goes nuts. I don't believe the shit they get away with on TV."
    "We only have ourselves to thank."
    "Huh?"
    "Our generation. We made 'fuck' an acceptable word."
    "And